A Court of Wind and Fire
by RavennaLightwood333
Summary: All who remember her in Prythian only remember her as dead. But unbeknownst to them, Diana has been alive for centuries now. Sold off as a slave to an empire across the world, she has lived a life of misery for 500 years. Taking her only opportunity to go home, Diana arrived in the Night Court alone and dying. Will Rhysand find her?
1. Prologue

I dream about Rhysand.

I dream about his face, his hair, his laugh. His Cauldron-be-damned smile, the smile that never failed to delight me, to take me from whatever foul mood I was so often in. I dream about the way he looked at Velaris, not like a lover but like a husband, duty-bound and yet still in love. I dream about him. And yet I will never see him as long as immortality binds me to this hell I am forced to live.

It is the one part of me that has remained over all these years, that has not yet been tarnished by the other blackened parts of my soul. It seems almost comical that I have to protect it, the only part of me still enjoying the carefree childhood I can barely remember, from myself. In a way I protect it from others too; nobody knows of these dreams, these secrets. I hoard them away like precious jewels, only glancing when I need their beauty in my life. I suppose it makes me selfish to do so, and yet I don't care.

Clinging onto Diana, onto the girl who lived a life unburdened. Onto the girl who roamed the streets of Velaris till she was dragged back home, onto the girl who lived and loved freely. Free. Free. Free. For a long time the words rang through my head as a reminder of the future I was living for; after a while, it began to taunt me. Now I simply can't hear it. I can barely remember a time where I wasn't so jaded towards life. It sits in the back of my mind, clinging on for its life, drowning in the pain that has flooded through me and saturated my mind, my heart, my soul. I wonder if he would be disgusted by it, by the fact I do not blink at this world and a tiny part of me cries at thinking my brother would no longer love me. But it is quickly silenced by the ever-looming reality of my situation. How can I be judged by a man who will never know me?

I wonder if he mourned for me after he buried the body sent down the river masquerading as my own. I wonder if he sat very quietly near a tree with two graves beneath it, and thought of what our life could have been if we hadn't been born with targets on our backs, waiting for arrows to pierce our hearts.

Sometimes, I wonder if he lies in a grave next to our mother, and to what he believed was me, but I don't allow that thought to come very often. I cannot, because I know that the only reason I live is for him. For his life, and his happiness, and his joy, because mine is all gone. I live for him, and thus I dream about him.

I never thought that dream would end.


	2. Chapter 1

The ground is cold. Colder than anything I had ever felt in many millennia now, the frost deep in the ground penetrating my body, curling around it, claiming it to the land. Lying face down in the snow, the only thing I can see is white. I cannot move; I can barely even blink. Motionless, the only thing I can do is track the snowflakes as they floated down to the ground from the sky. My mind seems to be as frozen as my body, my thoughts seemingly vanishing through me and into the cold, cold ground. I know I am bleeding; I know that both of my legs are probably broken, and my arms may have suffered a similar fate, and yet I feel no pain. Instead, I feel something different, so different from anything I have felt in hundreds of years. It begins deep in my stomach, a burning, powerful emotion which had been buried beneath years of pain and sadness and trauma. Only aware of my own labored breathing, I feel it snake its way up my body, claiming it's target. I can feel death coming, ready to take me, but I know no panic-in that moment, I only know joy. I had done it. Done the one thing I thought I was never capable of doing. I was home, home in Prythian. Home in the Night Court. My eyelids begin to droop, and my breathing, staggered and almost painful starts to slow. At that moment, the only thing I wished for was rest, deep, calming rest. But as I lay there, anticipating the strike of death, a voice suddenly speaks in my head.

_Rhysand._

My eyelids fly open, my breath hitching. It was a fleeting moment, barely there and then gone. But I know what I heard.

_Rhysand?_

It came again. Mother save me it came again. The voice I hear is not mine; it is one of someone else. Someone who speaks in my native tongue, a young female, almost human-sounding. One who speaks of my brother's name like I once did; with unbounded love, with hope, with curiosity. And as I listened to her echoing within the once silent caverns of my mind, a hope I once killed mistakenly thinking it would never come true alit itself once more inside me. Rhysand was alive, and he was here. Somewhere, maybe miles away, maybe minutes. I could not allow myself to dwell on these possibilities, I could only take advantage of this newfound strength. So with it, I forced my mind to focus, to think of something, anything to keep me awake. The idea of rest I had beckoned with open arms moments ago, and yet I now did everything possible to reject it. Pain that I had dismissed earlier had come back with a roaring vengeance, striking my legs, my right arm. But it did not claim itself fully in my left one, a sign I took as a mark of no, or at least a little, injury. With all the might in the world, I placed my left palm flat on the ground, hissing at the pain that rang up through my arm. While it may not be broken, it still felt like absolute shit. Nonetheless, I pushed the little power I had into my hand, trying to get me away from the snow, from the cold. Despite the chill, sweat tracked itself down my forehead and dripped into the snow. Grunting, I finally was able to push myself over, to lie flat on my back. Now was the problem of getting up. I needed to get warm, somehow, so I could think, so I could find him. I didn't know how, but I would do it, and this was a start. Lifting my eyes to the sky, I fell snowflakes in my mouth as I see only a vast cloudless gray stretch above me. Ignoring the pain in my neck, I turned my head towards the right side and saw the seemingly pristine snow had been marked scarlet by my blood, and lots of it too. The taste of it marks my mouth, dripping from wounds on my face, flowing freely from my nose. My head pounds, and I feel slightly lightheaded as I realize exactly how much blood I lost, and was continuing to lose because I knew that the deepest wounds on my torso and legs had not clotted. A dreaded feeling within me knew that at this rate, I would not last the night.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was truly the end of my life. I would die in the middle of this bleakness, my body reduced to nothing but a frozen carcass for the many animals of this forest to feast on. I have no more strength to feel scared at this idea, nothing left inside me to keep going. The only place I can retreat to is my mind, my infuriatingly empty mind. I grasp for the memory of that voice, of her, but I cannot find it. She's gone. As this reality rolls over me, I am vaguely aware of the tears falling down my cheeks. I have not cried in many years, had not allowed myself to. Back in Iktidar I could not let myself be vulnerable, could not show the cruel world any sort of emotion, so I bottled everything up and waited for a time where they could come out. Now, barely with any life remaining, the faint, rasping sobs still rattled themselves out of my failing lungs and into the freezing air, into the air that would not judge me, not manipulate me. I cried, for my life, for my family, for me. I cried like a child for its mother, like I did the moment they dragged me away from Mama's bloodied, headless corpse. And in my mind, my bleak quiet mind, I gave out the last message I could.

_Rhysand._

No question, just him. Just his name, just the idea that he was here at the same time I was. Just that I knew he was being loved by a female who knew him as I did, not as he thought the world perceived him. Just Rhysand. And as I looked up in the sky, ready to take my last breath, I heard it. Faint as a whisper, and gone before I knew it was there.

_Diana?_

It was him.


	3. Chapter 2

_A little note:_

_Hi! my name is Leila, and I am so glad that you're reading my story. I love ACOTAR and Sarah J. Maas with all my heart, and this is my labor of love for it. I wrote the prologue during a really tough period of my life and kind of just let it sit in my docs until I revisited it and saw what great potential it had. I never thought even a couple of people would read this, so just know if you are, thank you so much for reading my work. Sorry for this note, I'll let you get to the story!_

_PS. sorry if there are any grammatical errors. It's not my strongest point, but I'm working on it!_

**Amren POV**

I fucking hate the forest. I suppose it is my own fault for becoming friends with Illyrian warriors, who eat, breathe and sleep trees, dirt and all the other unsavory things that this pitiful patch of mountains has to offer. And yet here I am, stuck on top of said patch, with absolutely no idea as to why I even agreed to do so. The air is bitterly cold, and no matter how far I pull my scarf up above my face, the wind still penetrates the thick wool to lash my tender skin. It has only been in my recent months as a human that things like these happen; before that this kind of mortal pain wasn't even a distant memory; it was an experience yet to be had. I long for that now.

"Are either of you oafs going to explain why we're here?" I hiss through the wool, wincing at the wind in my eyes. Cassian turns towards me, obviously unbothered by the harsh conditions.

"You'll see, Amren." he says, beginning to chuckle. The cockiness in his voice paints red in my mind.

"You won't after I rip your eyes out with my fingernails," I mutter. Cassian's chuckle stops. Good. Just because I'm High Fae now doesn't mean that I'm any less dangerous than I was. But damn Rhysand, for calling a meeting in the middle of the wilderness, and only telling Cassian the reason for it. Azriel might know, but if he did, he wasn't showing it, and unlike Cass, I didn't feel like threatening his eyesight. And so, we remain silent, trudging through the thick snow, my knees barely peeking out from the top of it. Finally, we come to a clearing of trees. An empty clearing of trees, without Rhysand, Feyre or Mor here. "Damnit, Cassian, if this is some kind of joke I swear to-" I hiss, but before I can curse him for centuries to come, a loud thump comes behind me, and I know the rest of the Circle has arrived. Azriel's eyes meet mine, his hazel to my silver. "Are you ready for the game?" he drawls. I make sure my snarl is enough of a response.

**Rhysand POV:**

"I cannot believe I agreed to this." I hear Amren muttered under her breath. I chuckle, not turning back to fully receive whatever withering death stare she's most likely giving me at this moment. Instead, I keep focused, surveying the frigid winter that envelops the Illyrian forest, not minding the cold biting through my leathers. Being here reminds me of being young, fighting for my life in the Illyrian camps. Or at least the happier memories of that. I blocked out the worst ones, when I was close to death, or at least feeling like it, and utterly alone without Cassian and Azriel at my side. I knew they felt the same way as I look towards the two of them, Mor a few steps behind. Warmth fills me as I behold my family, the one I had created after all these years. I had so often worried about turning bitter as the years as a high lord wore down on me like it had done my father, but I know that will never happen because I have Amren, Cassian, Azriel, Mor, and Feyre. Especially Feyre. I don't even need to look to feel the happiness that floods me whenever she is present, but I do anyway, sneaking a glance at her face. She returns with one of her smiles, the ones that crack me open to her mercy, and looking into her blue-grey eyes, I know she knows it too.

"Ready to kick my ass?" I drawl, not taking my eyes away from her. Feyre's smile deepens, and so does my yearning to just winnow us away, and ravish her.

"Born ready, Rhys." she smirks. Cauldron, I really need to get myself under control, or else I just know Cassian or Mor will scream at me all evening for ruining everything. At least Amren would thank me, considering how her eight words conveyed exactly how frozen her ass was. Taking a deep breath, I turned to the rest of the group. "Here are the rules."

Mor groans. "There are rules?"

"Of course there are rules, or else we would all be stacked up on your sword before we could even track a squirrel." Feyre replies, a glint in her eye. Mor flashes a grin. "I can't help it that I like to win, especially against these idiots." She juts her chin towards Cassian and Az, who give protesting looks against the description. "As I was saying," I continue, grinning at the exchange, "the rules are that we all pair up, we have an hour to track the largest animal, and the winner is the one who brings home some kind of dinner." Amren's cursing after hearing this send the birds from the trees. "I told you it was a game." Azriel says to her, his voice low. "Not this exact one, you buffoon." Amren hisses, "I hunt alone. Not with two goons tripping up behind me."

"Can't anyone ever just call me by my name?" Cassian mutters. Ignoring this, Amren turns to me. "I only do this if I hunt alone, do you understand?" I shrug. "As long as you win. Or at least try to." Amren narrows her eyes. "Naturally, Rhysand. I always do."


	4. Chapter 3

**A Court of Wind and Fire: Chapter 3**

**Amren POV:**

I can smell blood.

While many things left me after I changed, the scent of blood will never leave me. So many years lusting after it, craving the way it slipped down my throat and warmed my belly. It was strange to no longer hunger for it, a feeling that even I could not anticipate. But I still can smell it from a mile away. Or in this case, a couple hundred feet. I lick my lips, already savoring the taste of victory. The scent is heavy and thick, and while I didn't quite know what it came from, the sheer strength of it meant whatever bleeding was big, bigger than any elk or stag the others could find. Maybe Feyre could take down the Middengard Wyrm with some old bones and perhaps Azriel could strike so quietly an animal would be dead before it realized it, but neither had lived centuries knowing blood as well as they knew themselves. Thank the gods, because if I had to participate in this infernal game just to watch Cassian stumble around and still win I would throw myself off of the Illyrian Steppes.

I track swiftly but quietly, turning through trees and dodging branches. As I come closer to the smell it becomes stronger, and yet I still cannot recognize it; This scent was different. Getting closer, I began to realize the strength of it may not come from the size, but the kind. I stop in my tracks, this realization coursing through my brain.

"What is it…" I wonder aloud, my breath frozen in the frigid air. The forest's response to my question is unnerving silence. I stand there for a few moments, disregarding how precious they might be for my hunt, wracking my head for answers. My eyes scan across the forest, and something catches my eye. A circle of scarlet red staining the dove white of snow, trickling across the frost. Almost covering all of the hand that lay inside it. The hand of a female.

I ran, not caring how I stepped on branches or slipped on ice. Each step seemed to take too long, my legs too short to go fast enough. The smell of the blood was overpowering, and as I got closer it seemed it doubled in size and tripled. I could see the female more clearly now, her tan skin, thick dark hair a stark contrast to the white snow. Her body was bruised and cut in every place it could be; clothes tattered and ripped to rags, and face turned away, blood dripping off the side of it. Something screamed at me in my head, an urgency I had felt for few in my years. It was if I knew this person, as I had loved her, and yet I didn't. Suddenly a name came into my head, a name I had thought little of in the past hundreds of years.

_Diana._

I pushed it down, incredulous that I had even thought of her. She had been killed, I had seen her severed head in Rhysand's hands. There was no possible way she could be alive, and yet this name persisted in my head. Finally, I reached her, barreling my knees to the blood-soaked snow. I could see no breath clouding the air, nor any movement in her chest. _Was she dead? _Panic engulfed my body as I grabbed at clothes, shaking her body.

"Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!" I scream. I taste salt in my mouth as a tear slips down my face, the sensation foreign. I try to hold them back, not allowing others to follow the first. Struggling to grip my bloody hands on the scraps of fabric that covers her chest, I raise her face to mine, and as I do so, her eyelids flutter open, just barely. Shock courses through my body as Rhysand's violet stare back at me, shrouded by dark sensuous lashes that almost covered all of her eye. Suddenly I am transported to memories, locked so deep within me that I could barely remember. Memories of love, of happiness, of a joy that could not be described, only felt. "Diana?" I whisper softly, staring back into the eyes of the only person I've ever mourned in my life.

"Rhys-Rhysand." she croaked, her gaze bearing into my soul. For a moment I feel a connection, a spark of hope burning between us. But as I feel her fall limp into my arms, the only thing I can do is scream her name and let the tears flow freely.

**Rhysand POV:**

It couldn't be her. I knew it couldn't. I didn't even know what she sounded like as an adult. And yet as I flew as fast as I could towards the wretched sounds of Amren howling, a voice inside me, the one I always trusted to know the truth, told me that it was. But she was dead. She was dead, and buried her, or at least what was left of her, a long time ago. Icy, unending rage tears through me as I remember her, as I remember her head in that bloody box, given to me by an Illyrian soldier whose name I never even bothered to learn as I stared and stared and stared at her eyes. The eyes of a ten-year-old child, the eyes of my clever, talented passionate beautiful sister, eyes that would never look at me with laughter, or sadness or anger again. I had seen her decapitated head, and yet every sense within me screamed that she was alive. Diana called out to me, _needed _me. And I would not let history repeat itself. For five hundred years, her death tore at my soul, creating holes so deep not even Feyre could mend them. But as Amren wailed Diana's name in a way I had never known her to do so, I knew that something was terribly wrong.

I could feel Feyre's tugging at my mind-no, not tugging, more like flinging her whole soul against my wall of adamant. For once, I feel as if I cannot let her in; I need to be alone, need to be alert. But her concern for me kills me inside, even as I focus on scanning the mountains, eyes tearing through thick trees for any sign of Amren and my sister.

Damn Amren for closing her mind to me, not allowing me to see through her eyes. I scratch and tear at her own wall, and it is unyielding, but I can still sense the terror that pulses within it. The only time I had ever known her to feel like this was when she had seen Diana's head cradled in my arms. When she had thought she was dead. The pain of this memory scratches at my soul and my eyes stray slightly from the ground to the winter sun. Diana was fascinated by it, surrounded by the deep cold that permeated the Night Court. Not in the childish way of most little ones, but in a way so far beyond the curiosity of youth.

Today, the sun was hidden, the sky a sullen gray, but it began to peek out and for a moment I hover there with the slight rays of light, the glint in the sky and I realize why she loved it. The colors, the brightness, the beauty. I take a long breath expecting pure frigid air, but the metallic scent of fresh blood come instead. Eyes widening, I look down and see it. The circle of red surrounding both Amren and an unmoving figure. I barrel down, going so fast tears cannot escape from my eyes, and as soon as I hit the ground I run. _I should have winnowed_, I think, _Cauldron damn me, I can't waste time_. My feet pound the ice, my tears stream past me. Finally, I reach her and crumple to the ground. Amren cradles her in her arms, pressing her mouth to her face, only releasing to speak.

"Rhys, I-, I couldn't," the words seem strangled from her mouth. I meet her eyes with my own tearstained ones as I take Diana in my own arms. Her right arm, her legs stick out in unnatural angles, broken shards of bone tearing through sinewy tendons as unclotted blood pools beneath her. Her face is bruised and cut, and yet she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Sobs wrack my body, as I pull her close, and whisper her name into her ear like Amren had screamed it through the mountains. But as I do so, I feel something tickle my neck.

Her breath.

* * *

_Little Note:_

_Ooh, lucky y'all. You get a long chapter. I know that some people probably were confused with the last one, but here is a little something to wrap it all up in a pretty little bow. Well, a little bow that has a cliff hanger at the end ;). Hope you liked it, and get ready for (possibly) some more tomorrow. Otherwise, a good night to you all! _

_Love ya lots,_

_Leila_

_PS. I've decided to put these "Little Notes" at the bottom now AND insert a special line AND a title header above to make everything a lil more fancy. See, I'm learning!_


	5. Chapter 4

**Rhysand POV:**

I have stood in silence for four hours.

Feyre is by my side, hands grasping my arms, cheek resting on my shoulder. Her own eyes try to reach mine, but I cannot meet them knowing that they are a mere window to my soul for Feyre. And for the first time in a long while, I am scared of that. I watch her brow furrow in my peripheral vision; she knows how I feel, my fear equally claiming her as it does me. Her silky voice shoots itself down the bond.

_Rhysand?_ Full of worry, concern. A long time ago I would have abhorred anyone being able to see my every emotion, worry, thought. I trusted Feyre though, and I trusted her heart. But even she could not mend the deep tear that ripped through me the moment I held my sister's broken body in my arms. It was my job alone, and Gods I hated it. It was like I was right back in Amarantha's bed, back in the War five hundred years ago separated from my brothers, back at the banks of that river with the heads of my mother and my sister in my lap. Shaking my head silently, I instead gazed to the mountains. I can feel Feyre's concern deepen.

"Rhysand, please.." tears shake Feyre's voice, and it hurts me so thoroughly I almost fall to my knees. "Rhysand talk to me." Mor, Cassian, Azriel, Amren even Nesta and Elain stand behind me, silent but their emotions tangible through the thick air. We all are still coming to terms with it; Diana, who we thought died at the hands of the Spring Court more than five hundred years ago was _alive_, and only a room away from me. But I dared not open the door that separated us. Not just because I didn't want to be in the healers' way; even through the thick walls you could hear the quiet murmuring, bandages being unwrapped and poultices being mixed together, spells in indecipherable languages cast over and over again, as if they needed all the magic in the world to help my sister. No, it was as if I touched her, she would dissolve beneath me like sand in high winds, a mere slip of my consciousness, a reminder of my trauma. And if that happened, it felt as if I would dissolve right along with her.

I remembered the day that I found her clearer than any other, remembered how visceral and earth-shatteringly real it had felt as I cradled her head in my arms and sobbed like a child for days on end. The same emotions coursed through me right now, almost stronger than they had been. But I knew that five hundred years could not stop me from recognizing my sister, that the worry and pain that bloomed from within me as I heard each rasping breath struggle to come from her heaving chest was the same worry and pain I had felt for Diana all these years. I closed my eyes, focusing on the noise that both troubled and steadied me. In, out, in, out. _Just keep breathing_, I pleaded my sister, _please keep breathing. _I couldn't do it again, bury a second grave, mourn a second death. I couldn't-

"Where in the gaping asshole of our Great Mother do you keep the goddamn liquor?!"

For a moment I forget to breathe, forget to blink, forget every instinct of life as I behold her. The tan skin, the wild dark curls that whispered around her face and rolled down her back, and the nose, the lips, the cheekbones of my mother. Violet eyes twin to mine, but what was behind them was something I could not recognize. Not rage, not sadness, not elation. It was indescribable, too dangerous to label and too feral to be boxed.

The healers fluttered behind her, their protests reaching unwilling ears as my sister storms right past us, straight to the cabinet directly behind me. With surprising ferocity she flings the heavy doors open, and runs her hands up and down shelves, seemingly looking for something. Nobody makes a move, nobody speaks, nobody breathes. It was as if we were all suspended like unmanned puppets and only she was being moved. Through the long linen nightgown she wears I can see the blue-black of bruises and blood rising through thick bandages, most of which adorn her lower legs. Legs that were broken only hours ago.

_How in the bloody Cauldron was she up?_ I thought frantically through my own shock. However good a healer may be and however fast Fae can recuperate, no one, save a god, should be able to have two broken legs and yet stride right out the door as if it had simply never happened. No, she should be practically comatose in bed, not moving for at least a week, if not a month. But as she plucked the biggest and strongest liquor bottle off the shelf, flicked off the tightly screwed on cap as if it was a fly on her arm and downed the entirety of the golden liquid in one gulp, it was made quite clear that she had completely recuperated.

I watched in speechlessness as she guzzles the bottle, no trace of a wince on her face even though the sheer smell of it wafting across the room made even my eyes water. Dropping into a nearby armchair, she mimicked the same movement of her body with the crystal bottle as she let go of it and barely noticed how it shattered on the floor. The glass sprayed across the carpet, the last drops of the liquor that she had not managed to consume sinking in. But nobody moves. We all just stare in opened mouth shock that she doesn't acknowledge. She simply lets the tenuous seconds pass, only filled with her laboring breath. Finally, from behind me, Amren's voice is only a whisper, but a needed one. "Bloody hell," she says, a hint of a shake in her normally sensuous voice, "way to make an entrance."

Diana's head made a slight turn toward me, eyes half-lidded and yet fully penetrating my own with a gaze that spoke a thousand words I could not understand.

"Yes," she drawls, her unfamiliar lilting accent a strange contrast to the heaviness of our mother language. "I have a fondness for theatrics." Her full lips curve ever so slightly, eyes still torturously claiming only mine. "I take after my dear brother."


	6. Chapter 5

**A Court of Wind and Fire: Chapter 5**

**TW: Slight mention of rape and violence at the very end**

**Diana's POV:**

Gods, he looked exactly as I remembered him.

Most would think that immortality was an infallible tonic to age, and it was, guarding against the most obvious signs; drooping of skin, greying of hair, gnarling of bones. But it did not protect against a certain look in someones' eyes, one that revealed every secret, every loss, every piece of pain that burdened them. No true part of nature is designed to be immortal, despite how hard our race tries to disprove it. Every piece of this world is meant to be born together, to grow together and to die together. To watch everything wither away without you is too heavy a burden to not affect you in some way. Thus, we let our bodies stay lithe and beautiful, but are forced to watch as our minds wither away with the rest of the Universe.

I had always worried that this would happen to Rhysand, that if I ever came back by some miracle this look would plague his eyes as it had our father, our mother, every other old Fae whom we knew. Granted, a little over five hundred years was not the oldest I had heard of, but younger had succumbed. And the Gods knew that he had seen enough to speed up the process; even when I was still in Prythian the early whispers of war had already seeped into the Court. Although I was in Iktidar for most of my life, I knew that my homeland was not a peaceful one, that there was bound to be bloodshed, and worse, bloodshed my brother was involved in. But as I sat in that chair, the liquor bottle shattered beneath me and it's contents already starting to take effect, I looked at my brother and recognized him completely.

"I think we should speak."

I kept my gaze on him, and the desperation that seeped from his words only deepened with the look in his eyes.

"We should," I made sure my response was short, my tone curt. "Alone." The word was not so much a reply as it was a command. Each glance at him made every single stagnant emotion within come to a roiling boil, but I couldn't let it show. He may be my brother, but I have lived too long to let the ruse of family fool me. It was yet to be determined if I was truly safe.

Sitting slightly more upright, I tried to examine the room the best I could with the Gods be damned liquor starting to slur the thoughts in my head. I was a fucking fool for underestimating the sheer power of a fine Fae vintage, but even in my intoxicated stupor, I knew that the people that I had vaguely registered behind Rhysand were far too dangerous to sit in on our conversation.

Rhysand shifted with uncertainty on his feet at this, worry clouding the emotions in his face. I smothered the urge to snort at the fact that he was troubled by the prospect of it just being the two of us. He clearly was no longer the fierce warrior I once knew him to be if he was frightened to speak to his half-drunk little sister.

"Oh come on darling, I don't bite." I whispered, edging forward, my incoming laughter beginning to pierce the words. Clearly not finding this funny in the slightest, Rhysand's eyes shifted from mine, meeting those of a female behind him. She had golden-brown hair and freckled skin, her face unfamiliar to me even in the vaguely sober part of my mind. There was something about her, a kind of raw power that thrummed in the air between us. Eyes widening at the gaze of my brother, her grey-blue irises swirled with a feeling that I barely recognized, but could put a name too. Love, but not the one that just anyone could capture. The love of a mating bond. I settled back in my chair, feigning boredom to disguise the fact that the reality of having been away for five hundred years was beginning to set in.

A mate, of course, he had a mate. And annoyingly, an extremely powerful one. For a few moments, they stared at one another, seemingly having a conversation with just their eyes. Finally, the female strode over to Rhysand and took his hand in hers. The scent of their mating bond was overwhelmingly thick, a strength and potency to it that I hadn't known even in our parents. Reaching her lips to his ears, she whispered a few words too quiet for even me to hear and gave him a reassuring smile. That was all it took for my brother to turn back around and nod in agreement.

"Fine then," he said, the reluctance of his tone not entirely washed away from his heart to heart with his mate. "Alone."

At this, the room began to file out, first the healers and then the rest of what I supposed was his Inner Circle. I scanned them, searching for just a single moment of recognizance from my drink addled mind, and yet I couldn't find them. As raw as the emotions were, the names, the lives, the _warnings_ failed to reach me. But as I looked at each one the eyes, barely registering the tears and the sheer grief that poured from their faces, I noticed one had failed to even glance at me. One of the Illyrians, tall and muscular, a preternatural stillness to him that was most likely designed to let him hide in the abnormally dark shadows that shrouded him. But to me, this did the exact opposite. Even faced away from me, all I could sense was _danger_, the feeling enveloping my body and coursing through my veins. But this danger did not threaten me. Instead, my blood ran icy cold.

Sensing my eyes on him, the Illyrian began to stir, turning ever so slightly to meet me. I dropped my eyes, letting the coolness of my hair calm the panic beginning to bloom on my face. Looking down, I could barely see the dark hair and tanned skin, but I could still feel the coolness of shadows whisper and twirl around me like dancers, the familiar, unmistakable sensation of Azriel.

A name.

_Azriel._

**SLAM!**

I nearly jumped as the door thudded shut, the heavy oak resounding against the frame. I looked up, still reeling from what had just happened. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I sized my brother up, waiting for him to speak first. Partly because I was far too arrogant to be the eager one in this situation, and also because I wasn't sure my voice wouldn't come out a petrified croak. Almost a full minute passed between us. He seemed to not be able to tear his eyes away from my face, a terrifying vulnerability to his expression the polar opposite of the trained indifference I plastered on my own. We had had many moments like this in the last few months I spent in Velaris, only I was the one with the tearful gaze and him with the cool grin and uncrackable eyes. How different we had become. It almost made me sad.

I narrowed my eyes again, suddenly aware of the softening of my cheeks. _Almost_.

"Where were you?"

His words were a cry, begging for a similar response.

"Perhaps I should ask you that."

It was time he learned I did not cry.

Rhysand's eyebrows jumped, the sincerity of the shock on his face disgusting me. "What do you-" I didn't let him finish, rising from the armchair with a slight wobble from the drink.

"You know exactly what I mean," I seethed, controlling all the emotions in my voice except the untameable rage. "Where the bloody hell were you as half of your family was butchered at the Spring Court's expense?" Rhysand took a step forward, mirroring my step back.

"Diana, I didn't know," He let his palms, once outstretched in what I supposed was an effort to touch me, fall to his sides, defeated. "I promise you, had I had the slightest idea you were in trouble, I would have…" the words trailed off, my brother unable to finish them. "Please Diana," his lip began to tremble, the words breaking, "Please." I turned away from him. I might have been all cool humor and apathy when this conversation began, but now I was boiling, fists shaking from pure anger.

"Please what Rhysand? Please forgive me, please forget how the last five hundred years have not been so much a life as a living fucking hell?" I looked up at the window in front of me, the panes enveloping the winter sun that was beginning to fall to the mercy of the moon. Something I would have given every piece of soul to watch once more when I was in Iktidar. I span around, the power within me threatening to explode into pure darknight if I stood one moment more at that window.

"Believe me, Diana, I have felt as much pain as you have, hurt in my heart exactly as you do now," Rhysand whispered, unabashed tears rolling down the planes of his face, "Fate has been the cruelest master to us, but let this be a new beginning. Let us live the life that we dreamed of." How could he speak of dreams, of hope, of new beginnings? By the Gods, I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me like he used to look at our mother, the way he spoke my name like a prayer when each word from his lips sounded like a curse. He knew nothing of my pain, of the hurt in my heart. He knew nothing at all and deserved as much.

I strode right up to him, our noses almost touching, his falling tears a stark contrast to the snarl on my face.

"Fate?" I whispered, my eyes piercing his, "You say that our mother being repeatedly raped, tortured and decapitated while still screaming for her children is fucking _fate_?" I spat out the word, let the venom flow from my tongue to his mind. "That a ten-year-old forced to forsake her home, her family, everything she had ever known in this world to spare her life, is fate?" I laughed, a humorless choke pushed from my lungs, "And you expect me to agree? To kiss your ring of ignorance and pretend that you are not the sole reason for everything I have ever lost in my life? Then you are worse than our sadist of a father, worse than those soldiers that dragged me from the camp, worse than the rabid hounds that tore our mother's corpse apart."

I grabbed his shirt dragging his ear to my lips, finding little resistance, letting the tears spill on my shoulder and the sobs ring in my mind.

"You are no part of my dreams, Rhysand."


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

I had forgotten what winnowing felt like.

Even as a toddling infant, it had come as easy as breathing to me, not so much skill, more so a congenital habit. _She is a true child of darkness_, I remember the tutors saying to my father, _the night beckons her_. It certainly did, folding me into nothing more than smoke, dust, and wind with half a second's thought, or at least until I aimed myself directly on top of Rhysand's shoulders so I could _finally_ beat him in wrestling. Half the time he would swing me right back over his shoulder and win the match, and the other half he would give me a comprehensive education on the filthiest swear words our language had to offer. But, as I now had to remind myself, that was my brother then, my brother of childhood, of innocence, of happiness. That brother was no longer, and neither was the girl I was back then. Especially when my once hard trained smoke, dust, and wind decided to throw me directly against a mortared wall so hard a distinctive _thunk_ could be heard as my skull rattled off the brick.

"_Hasiktir!"_ I hissed as I lunged back from the impact of the wall, the Hijazi word slipping from my tongue before I could catch it. A feeling of disgust rang through me as I said it, wanting to scrub each syllable from my tongue. Even when it was my only existence, I wished I could wash every part of Iktidar that had formed within me down a drain of nothingness. Well, almost everything. As I sank back against the wall, head pounding and the now familiar feeling of blood starting to seep down my face, the only thing I could think about was that I craved a _sigara_. Badly. The need of it coursed through me, thrumming in my veins, clouding my mind. Instinctively, my hand reached down toward my hips, searching for the pocket I had stashed my last pack in. But as my fingers skimmed the thin linen, I realized I was no longer wearing the clothes I had come in, meaning my smokes were currently in the possession of brother dearest, Rhysand. _Shit_. I could have done without his food or shelter, but he held the last twenty _sigaras_ I would ever see again, and I wasn't exactly in a position to ask for them back. _Shit, shit, shit_. I had counted on the sweet clove smelling smoke to clear my head from both the pain and drink that plagued it, but now I didn't even have that. Now, I have nothing.

Even though the alley was far removed from the square it led to, the noise it emanated had amplified tenfold, my hands shaking too violently to cover my ears from the jarring din. The scent of spices overpowered me, the stifling heat sending streaks of sweat down my face and soaking through my nightgown. Even the sound of my breath, ragged and inconsistent, sent lashes of pain up and down my body. Waves of nausea rolled over me, the feeling of vomit starting to rise in my throat. I hazily registered the panicking thought that commanded me not to lose the meal that might be my last one for days, but the urge was too strong as I bent over and retched onto the cobblestones. Grey and beige chunks splattered the ground, splashing my face and the sides of my legs, the horrific smell of it singing my nostrils. I couldn't stop, each heave pushing another wave of sick from my mouth. I braced my head between my knees, desperately seeking a respite. _Please_, I prayed silently to gods I didn't even believe in, _anything, anyone to lessen the pain_.

And it stopped. All of it.

The air around me was no longer as stifling, the noise dulling down to a distant hum, and for a few brief, precious moments I could find sense in my thoughts. A coolness whispered down my neck, curling around not just my body but my mind, the feeling unsettlingly similar to one I had felt before. A hand, warm, masculine, and distinctly textured, gently pulled my curls away from my sweat and vomit soaked face. Eyes closed, I leaned back into his touch, letting the way his fingers grazed the back of neck pull me into the lull of memories, of ones so deep in my mind they weren't images. Instead, they were feelings. Feelings of-

_Azriel._

Even though I was turned away from him, my instincts screamed his name. The warmness within me instantly froze, its ice chipping off and leaving shards of anger that seized my mind with fury. Pushing back the feeling of uneasiness that roiled my stomach each time I was around him, I leaped up from the ground and twirled toward the spymaster. A second barely passed before my hands firmly grasped his neck, nails digging into his skin so hard crescents of blood began to well up beneath them. The surprise of my attack worked to my advantage as I pushed him hard against the alley wall, a snarl ripping itself from my throat as I choked him. Azriel's eyes widened at my strength, clearly not anticipating me having the upper hand in this fight. Well, it was time he learned a goddamned lesson in treating Diana Altair like a damsel in distress. Anger sharpened my mind, whipping the haziness of my _sigara _withdrawal into a honed rage that whitened my knuckles against the deep tan of his throat. But in my anger, I failed to notice his hands were still free. Unfortunately for me, he did.

The shadowsinger was almost a blur as he grabbed my waist and switched our positions, cobalt siphons flaring as his hard body immobilized me against the wall. Hands that had once gently caressed my hair moments ago now pinned my wrists above my head, not budging despite my resistance. I tried to writhe against him, my knee desperate to shove itself in his balls, but I could feel his shadows binding me to the brick. My sudden burst of strength started to fade, a heaviness bearing down on me that wasn't entirely from Azriel. He squared in on me, and I half marveled half relished at the fact that the spymaster didn't even flinch at the pungent, vomit tinged scent of my hot breath blowing right into his face. Instead, he pushed even harder against me, closer to me than some of my lovers had even been. A throaty laugh escaped from me as the planes of our bodies laid flush against each other, my breasts pushing against his amply muscled chest almost as hard as my thighs to his cock.

"Do you really want to bed me that badly?" I drawled, ignoring the raspiness of my voice and trying to inflict some kind of lust. Maybe I could get out of this, maybe I could escape. After all, the allure of my body had saved me from far worse. But Ariel's face was bitterly cold, unmoving despite my best efforts.

"You've looked better," He said indifferently, eyes not betraying a single thought in his head. "Bloody and beaten was a marginal improvement to smelling like a drunkard's outhouse."

"Fuck you," I snarled. My plan wasn't working, and he bloody knew it. "Unless you make a habit of stalking around in pissed filled alleys, I can find little other reason why you and I are having this lovely little chat."

His grasp tightened. "Believe me, I had no expectations of you having any kind of reason," We were so close, I could hear the speed of his heart, each quickening beat pounding another wave of animosity toward me. "Considering how you acted little better than a child toward Rhys."

Just hearing my brother's name made me want to rip Azriel's vocal cords from his throat, but another plan was quickly forming in my head, and I couldn't afford to lash out. At least not physically.

"Maybe you're right," I smiled prettily as false sincerity infused my words and snaked their way from my lips to his mind. The grip of his shadows relaxed, and I swore I could see a hint of trust flash in his eyes. "Maybe I _should_ reconsider my feelings toward my brother, " I angled my head toward him, taking advantage of the loosening bindings. "Maybe," I whispered, "there is just the slightest possibility that your darling High Lord Rhysand was too much of a fucking coward to crawl out of his shithole of a palace to try to find me. That is, after all, what lapdogs are for, isn't it? Fetching?" My smile widened, the sickening saccharine of it a cruel contrast to the growing anger that marred the coolness of Ariel's face. I got even closer, my eyelashes brushing the smooth skin of his trembling cheekbone. "Tell me, am I a worthy bone?"

The satisfaction at breaking him was shortlived as he threw me back against the wall, only an extremely thin cushion of shadows stopping him from splattering my brains against the mortar.

"You will never," he seethed, his voice thinly veiling the fury that pulsated from him, "ever, speak of my High Lord like that again." I could barely breathe as the shadows wrapped tightly around me, suffocating to the point I wondered if that was the last breath I would ever take. "I don't give a damn about what you think of me, but let's make it clear that I serve Rhysand because I _love _him. I am his comrade, his advisor, his _brother_, and because of that, I have had to watch what you did to him. Rhysand tore himself apart for five hundred years, paid an unfathomable penance for things he did not owe, all because of the guilt your death caused him. And yet you've been alive all these years, hiding from the chaos you created. I do not lust for you, I do not hate you, I do not pity you. The only thing I feel, Diana, is that the only fucking coward here is _you_."

For once, I said nothing. There was so much emotion on his face, emotion I had never known of him, even in my distant memories of childhood. It was not anger that shook his words; it was pain, the pulsing, infected pain of a wound that had been open and festering for centuries. I barely blinked before the shadows that once had bound me creating a thick cocoon encasing both of us. The noises he had quieted were now completely silent, the scents he had diluted nowhere to be found. All there was darkness. But not the darkness of my brother that thrummed with untapped power, or darkness of my father that lusted for it. This was his darkness, that had no name or message, except death. I could feel the burgeoning power, knew that if he didn't act fast, we both would lose our lives to it, both paralyzed, unable to move, unable to control. All I could do was plead, scream into the vast expanse of the shadows and hope he heard at least a whisper.

_Please._

Suddenly, the shadows were no longer, gone as if they had never been there. Noise, sound, smell, light all rushed back, demanding me for a reaction. But I barely noticed them, even the life-sustaining breath pouring into my lungs. The only thing I could do was watch as Azriel shuffled back shakily, still bracing a fist on the wall beside my head. _This is your moment_, my mind urged me, _take advantage of it, let this be your chance to escape. _But I didn't want to escape. Some part of me, a part of the girl that I had long buried deep within me, wanted to be with him. Not to comfort him, I told myself as I looked on at the man I was supposed to despise with all my heart, but to watch him. To make sure the darkness didn't consume him. He may not lust for me, hate me, or pity me, and yet he still saved my life. I just wasn't sure if he would save his.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

A few moments passed as I watched him regain himself, his body near but not daring to touch me, even with his gaze. Finally, he took his hand off the wall and stepped back a healthy distance from me. The shadows restarted their swirling around him, the apathetic exterior of his expression yet again plastered on his face.

"I believe I have something of yours."

In those long minutes of terse silence, I was more than surprised to find that Azriel would choose those words to cut it with. To be completely honest, I was struggling to believe he was still here, considering what had just happened, what he had shown me. But, I suppose, this was Azriel. Cool, calm, utterly collected, and without fail, never one to not go through with a mission. It appeared my brother had trained him well.

"What?" I breathed, still keeping my eyes on him, on the shadows that curled around the crisp lines of his body like whispering clouds. Tracking each movement, I watched as the spymaster reached down to the inside of his jacket, his hand hidden beneath the smooth folds of the Illyrian leather until it reappeared grasping a small, bronze box with rounded edges, swirling Hijazi strokes engraved on the front of it.

It was my _sigara _box.

Instinctively I thrust my body forward, almost tripping over myself as my hand snaked to seize it from him, my dry mouth already tasting the sweet-smelling clove smoke. But where my _sigaras _once were, only air remained as Azriel swept his hand away, thrusting the box far up above my head, his face not so much smug as it was unyielding.

"Not that easy, I'm afraid." his teasing words a juxtaposition to his solemn tone, tilting his head. "Before we got sidetracked-" he paused, the darkness of the memory clouding his eyes almost too quickly for me to notice. "I came here to offer you a deal."  
"Now that's just cruel," I purred, my eyes still set squarely on the box. "But not cruel enough, I'm afraid."

_How much time would my own darkness give me to take the box and run before he was able to follow me?_

"I've made it very clear exactly what I have-rather, what I don't have- to offer you, darling. Despite how enticing your incentive may be, it won't change a single fucking thing." I eased my head back against the wall, reassuming my seductive, half-lidded gaze, tucking my arms so the shaking of my hands would be somewhat concealed.

_Gods, thinking of the way the smoke would taste against my lips almost made me fall to the ground and start kissing his boots._

Azriel's face gave away nothing at my words, his eyes noting my indifference as he twirled the box between his scarred fingers, and clearly not giving a damn. A cruel apathy marred the prettiness of his marble-hewn face as he took several more steps back, regaining his own position against the other side of the alley wall.

"How would you suggest I be sufficiently cruel to you then, Diana?" He looked up at me from the box, a silent challenge in his eyes. Flipping the lid open, he proffered a single _sigara _from the box and let it sit effortlessly between his fingers. I could barely stop my own sharp exhale as the cloves began to perfume the air thickly, the scent threatening to take away my delicately managed front.

"Perhaps I should just," he let the _sigara _dangle dangerously beneath his fingers, his grasp no longer deceptively loose. "Drop them." The sigara fell fast as he let it go, soundlessly landing into the cobblestones. Even in the darkness of the alley, I could see the greasy sheen washing over the ground. The smell already was indicative enough, the piss, shit, and vomit filled scent of it familiar and yet still not appreciated at all.

_It doesn't matter though, if I just_-

My mind was at war over the soiled _sigara, _every impulse inside me screaming to drop to the floor for a single breath of the smoke in my lungs. But I managed to drag my gaze from the ground and try my best to train it on his face. I could not let him break me.

"No?" Azriel's smile was merciless. "And to think I was so looking forward to see you be your own little lapdog. Ah, what a shame." He popped another out of the box, once again letting his fingers curve around it. Body sliding off the wall, he and his shadows moved effortlessly until there was less than a foot between us.

"If you no longer desire these." He surveyed the _sigara_, nostrils flaring as he brought it close, close, closer. "Then I don't see why these should go to waste." And with his final word, he pushed the sigara between his lips and ignite with less than a thought, the scent increasing ten-fold as the flames let the potency of the herbs fully reveal themselves.

Finally, he lowered the box down near my chest, and popped the lid open. I could have sworn drool dripped down my face as the sheer smell of the _sigaras_ perfumed the alley's stale air. Greedily, I crammed my fingers in the box, withdrawing one with shaking fingers.

"_Thankyouthankyou,_" the words blurred together as I lifted the _sigara_ to my lips and willed a small spark to burn the end of it and release the blissful feeling of the drug within it. Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the wall, the anticipation of the release almost too much for me to bear.

But it did not come.

"Motherfucker," My lips fumbled to form the word with the smoke held clumsily between them. Reluctantly, I let my eyes hold a half-lidded gaze on Azriel's fingers, which were now firmly clamping the end of the _sigara, _stopping any chance for the damned thing to ignite.

"You," the spy singer drawled, his words intimate but his body not daring to come closer to me, "are a terrible negotiator." His hand grasped the _sigara_ even harder, threatening to pull it from my mouth. "You never heard my end of the deal."

_Shit_. He was right. Even with the smoke unlit, the flavor of it seeping into my mouth gave a much-needed clarity to the fact that I might have just signed my life off to the shadowsinger. But it started to fade as the pure need of the clove-scented smoke devoured me whole, rending any logical thought in my head obsolete. Drawing my eyes from the painful sight of the unlit _sigara_ to his gaze, I didn't even mask the sheer exhaustion in my voice.

"What do you want?" A coolness was once again starting to fall over me, the alley darkening despite the blistering sun that reigned above us. I could feel my knees begin to buckle, the heavy weight of my eyelids as they drooped.

"I want you," his voice faded into the background, the echoes of it ringing out in my head like pealing bells. "To sleep."

The _sigara _fell from my lips almost as fast as my unconscious body slumped into his arms.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

I haven't slept like this in hundreds of years, had it claim me fully and properly, binding me to my dreams so tightly they meld into my skin as tight as a snake to a bird's throat. It was the sleep of a memory, one so deeply buried within me it was barely pieced together when I found it. And as I started to wake from the enticing lull of it, I realized why. The embroidered pillow my head lay on, the sheer lilac chiffon that laced the top of the four-poster birch bed, even the scent of fresh gardenias sweetening the air. It was my bedroom in the House of Wind, the one I spent the precious few moments of my childhood in. The last place I had ever truly slept a night without terror.

I took a few moments to remember exactly what had happened, focusing on the steadiness of my breath and trying to wrangle the whispering memories within me into some kind of coherent timeline. These last few days had been so diced up between hazy consciousness and dark oblivion that it was hard to decipher if the brief flashes of memory were fact or fiction. Turning my head to the side, I tried to suppress the throbbing of an oncoming headache that I felt dance on my sensitive temples, the feeling of pain now as familiar as breathing. As my gaze drifted across the side of the room trying to think about anything other than the thrumming of my skull, I caught sight of the side table, and more importantly, the little bronze box that sat atop it.

Scrambling upright, I threw myself back against the solid wood headboard as my fingers grasped the box, need coursing through my veins, and overpowering my blood. Picking one out of the pack, I propped the smoke between my cracked lips and made extra sure that when my spark lit its end, there was no son-of-a-bitch shadowsinger to stop it. But thankfully, the flame turned the edges of the _sigara _a glowing red before its cinders began to fall and the numbing release of the clove tinged smoke filled my lungs. I breathed in fully, letting it linger inside me, before I pulled the _sigara _from my lips, letting the greyish trail of smoke blow a familiar sensation from between my teeth. Closing my eyes, I prepared for another drag, relishing in the feeling of having control for the first time in days. Parting my lips, placing the damp paper that soaked the sickly sweet taste on my tongue, breathing in-

My eyes flew open as a loud coughing noise filled the air, the person making said noise seemingly trying to hack up their lungs with the sheer power of their breath. I flipped over, _sigara _still poised between my lips, and braced myself for the worst. If it was that bastard Azriel again, I'd already sworn to myself that he wouldn't leave our next meeting walking. But where my eyes expected to see a brawny Illyrian warrior with one of those infuriatingly cold expressions on his stupidly beautiful face, they only met a girl with golden-brown hair sitting in an armchair, face red with exertion from holding in another cough. I squinted, trying to discern even a single threatening thing about her, but I was met with nothing. She was Fae, no doubt about it, but there was something to her that felt distinctly human, almost like that of Rhysand's mate. She looked like Feyre too, but with a rounder face, and kinder eyes. And, I noticed as my eyes dipped down to her lap, she was holding a basket filled with glazed strawberry muffins. My favorite.

Her own face was equally as surprised as she beheld me, both fear and fascination twinkling behind her velvety brown eyes. She held a half-eaten muffin in her hand, and I noted with bemusement that although she had a naturally softer face, its roundness could be attributed to the baked good that she had stuffed inside her cheeks like a burrowing chipmunk. Nervously, the girl attempted to swallow the mass of food and held out the muffin.

"Would you like one?" she whispered, her muffled voice shaking slightly. "I baked them for you when you came here, but it's been three days so I couldn't let them go to-"

"Wait," I stopped her, dreading realization starting to chill my bones. "I've been here for three days?"

The girl nodded uncertainly, her eyes drifting to the window beside her. "Yes. I've never known someone to sleep as long as you have."

"That's impossible," I muttered, taking a well-needed drag of the _sigara_, but this time not bothering to savor the smoke in my lungs before I exhaled. "It only felt like-"

The girl shrugged, popping another piece of the muffin into her mouth. "If I fell from the sky, I'd probably sleep as long as you have too," she chewed thoughtfully, her mouth closed but the evidence of the far too large bite obvious as it bulged out of her cheeks, "actually, far longer." She wrinkled her nose. "Do you have to smoke those? I don't mean to be rude, but they smell awful." She gestured toward the _sigara _dangling from my mouth. I considered for a moment, and then reluctantly put out the _sigara _on the side table, letting it burn the pale wood and spill ash across the surface. The girl seemed to be the only person here who was giving me any kind of non-riddled response and I could afford to live without the clove smoke if I got some real answers. Turning back to her I prowled across the bed, settling toward the chair she sat in and not taking my eyes off of her a single second.

"My name is Diana," I said, still keeping my tone measured. Even though I had ruled her out as a physical threat, there was still a chance she was some kind of spy, especially for Azriel. And I knew more than anyone, that what words did not say, emotions could speak volumes of.

"I know," the girl replied, the muffin now completely gone. She smiled sweetly, "I'm Elain."

"A pleasure, Elain," I murmured, debating whether or not I should try and invade her mental walls. I knew better than to try it on Rhysand and Azriel, but Elain seemed mortal, soft. Easy to crack.

"Want a muffin?" she proffered one of the strawberries glazed pastries before me. My stomach grumbled in response, and a little giggle escaped her lips.

"Fine." I grabbed the muffin and noting how delicious smelling it was, I decided I would play nice. Just for her. "But only if you answer some of my questions."

Elain sat back, laying her head on the back of the chair. "Sure," she said, the giggle still a whisper on her face, "But I can't promise you I know everything."

"Is my brother's mate related to you?"

Elain's eyes brightened. "Feyre. I'm her elder sister."

"You don't seem like it."

"She's been through a lot." the light in her eyes dimmed.

"Why is it," I struggled to speak between mouthfuls of the exquisite tasting muffin, "that you give off the energy of mortals when you are clearly not?"

The light completely went away. "I was Made by the Cauldron," she turned toward the window, unable to meet my eyes. "I was once human."

I had grown up with the idea of Cauldron-making to be the stuff of legends, such a blatant contradiction of Nature's order impossible to conceive. And yet, here was proof that it was in fact, very, very real. "Was Feyre made then too?"

Elain nodded, the pain still thinly veiled in her eyes, "But not by the Cauldron. She was made by all the High Lords coming together and bringing her back to life after she," a shaky pause, "died."

An explanation for the power I had felt radiating off of her, like nothing I had ever felt before. Power, that if I didn't play my cards right, could very easily be set against me. A moment of silence passed between us, with Elain not meeting my eyes until she started to speak.

"I was upset with my sister when I came here too."

I let a humorless laugh fall from my lips. "I doubt you and I-"

"We are more similar than you think." She turned her eyes toward me, the softness now hardening into well-worn pain. "Unlike you or Nesta, I didn't show it quite so, well, overtly. But I was angry." Her eyes bore into mine, so piercing I was unable to look away. "I still am, a little. Angry, I mean."

"Nesta?" I questioned, Elain's unexpected confession still processing in my mind. "another sister then?" Elain nodded again. "Well then, isn't she supposed to be part of my welcoming committee too?"

Elain winced. "Unlike the others, she's not exactly the visiting type."

"Believe me," I responded dryly, "Considering the bedside manner I've been met with so far, I'm sure your Nesta would be like a dream come true." I cocked my head, studying Elain's face, the mortal innocence so strangely plastered across High Fae features. "Have I had many visitors, then?"

Another wince from Elaine. "Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," I could see she was trying to drag it out, that the words she had to say made her uneasy, "Your brother _has_ come a couple of times."

I raised my eyebrows. "A couple of times?"

"More like once every hour."

"Ah, I see." I was far from surprised.

"Feyre came to. You should have seen the look on her face. I was afraid she was going to rip your eyes out."

Ah, the mating bond. I had forgotten how defensive it made Fae even at the smallest slight. At least my brother's mate had balls. I wasn't sure I could say the same of him.

"Rhysand seemed genuinely concerned, though. I think he wanted just to sit with you, wait till you woke up. But he never made it past the door. I made sure of it."

"Are you supposed to be my bodyguard then?" I asked, leaning back against the headboard. "Taken a special interest in me?"  
Elain shook her head, another one of her nervous giggles escaping her lips. "I'm anything but. I'm just helping Azriel. He said that unless you asked for your brother, he wasn't to enter." She cocked her head this time, a coy little smile playing on her face, "I think he likes you."

"My brother?"

"No," Elain looked up shyly at me, a coy smile playing on her lips. "Azriel."

I was taken aback by this, my mind flurrying with ideas, but none of them giving me a single reason why Azriel would try and protect me. I was supposed to be the grand prize he fetched for Rhys, and yet I was sequestered from my brother as if he was the prisoner, not I. Azriel was right; there was nothing less I wanted then to see Rhys now, but why on earth would he respect my wishes? Our brief meeting hadn't exactly gone well, and I knew the queasiness I felt whenever I was around him was probably mirrored in his but increased by tenfold. I let my instincts allow a sarcastic smile to paint my face, a well-worn mask to hide the surprise that gripped me.

"Well, I think he fucking despises me."

Elain paused, and then came over, sitting lightly on the bed, a healthy distance away from my drawn knees, but close. Too close.

"I don't think he-" She bit her lip, thinking a thought I couldn't allow myself to listen to, "fucking despises you." she bit back another smile, color blooming on her cheeks.

"I don't know," It almost made me grin too, her obvious scandalization toward a word that I used far too often. "Do you think I should take him kidnapping me as a sign of love?"

Elain shrugged, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "Az has this way of knowing exactly how to make you feel better without you even saying it." She abandoned the thread and turned to me. "He helped me a lot when I came here, too. Everything, my home, my friends, my body was so new. I felt so compelled to hate myself, was so hopeless I wouldn't allow myself to feel a thing. He taught me otherwise. He made sure I lived."

Her words were poignant, obvious truth spoken from each syllable. Even so, I had trouble believing her. He didn't exactly give off the feeling of being all warm and fluffy. "Well forgive me if this contradicts your glowing opinion of him, but he seems far too controlled by my brother's wishes." I scoffed. "I don't care for minions."

Elain looked at me carefully, her once earnest stare now evolving into something different. She was quiet for a few moments, and then she turned away from me, letting out a sigh. "Azriel is a member of Rhysand's Inner Circle. It is his duty to serve your brother, and he takes it very seriously. But do not discount him. He is capable of having his own agenda."

My eyebrows raised. "Against my brother?" Finally, this was getting interesting.

Elain laughed, albeit a little less fully than before, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. She turned back toward me. "No, no, that was a poor choice of words. Not an agenda. He has thoughts, emotions, feelings toward others." Another half-smile. "Behind the shadows, he is a person. Understand that, and perhaps your eyes will no longer be clouded by judgment."

I snorted at these words, a rakish smile starting to pull at my lips, but trained my eyes to the window, not daring to meet hers. "Did he pay you to say that?"

Even in my peripheral vision, I could see Elain's cheeks blooming with crimson as I said this, but her eyes only skimmed the top of my head before meeting someone else's. I needn't turn around to know who it was. The cold shadows that I could feel whisper at my skin were indicator enough.

"You will come to understand, Diana, that Elain values her integrity over such things." I could practically feel Azriel's lips curling with freezing contempt. "Besides, you're certainly one to talk." He cocked his head toward me as I resentfully turned to look at his face. "As I remember it, it took less than five seconds for you to be on your knees for some shoddy herbs in that alley."

"As always, Azriel your manners are impeccable. I can only imagine how the women of Velaris must react to such charming wit." My eyes narrowed as they closed in on his, the tone of my voice turning ice cold as I beheld him. Beside me, Elain shifted uneasily on the bed, clearly uncomfortable at the exchange. Something told me that she had never seen Azriel like this, filled with such antipathy toward another. A part of me marveled at this, at knowing only I could get a rise out of him. But there was another part, a little quiet voice that told me it was something else. Something so far away from hate. But as I watched those eyes, those cruel, heartless, beautiful eyes of his, I decided that voice had no place in my mind.

"Is it almost time to go?" Elain's quiet voice cut through the thick silence that was eagerly feeding on the mutual disdain. "It's already gotten dark."

'Go where?" I turned back toward her, searching her face for answers. She chewed her lip, those doe eyes glancing away. Damn it, she was hiding something.

I turned back toward Azriel. His lips were pressed into a tight, thin line, the muscle in his jaw twitching. He studied me for a moment, leaning against the door frame looking as if he was gravely regretting a decision. Finally, he pushed off the frame, a wary smile painting his face as he spoke.

"Dinner."


End file.
